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SHAM 



A PLAYLET OF TWO SCENES 



SHAM 



A PLAYLET OF TWO SCENES 



Copyrighted 1914 by its Authors 
PRESTON LOCKWOOD & LINCOLN EYRE 



SISSON-WOLLETT TYPESETTING CO. 
St. Louis 



A? 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Phyllis Knight, a cosmopolitan soubrette with a fairly good voice, 
some music hall successes to her credit and a 
wide education in gaining useful friends. She 
is about 26 years old and may be found one sea- 
son in San Francisco and the next in London. 
Her life on the stage is one kind of "show" suc- 
cessful ; her private life is an effort at maintain- 
ing another. She lives the usual electric light 
existence of her kind, never facing realities be- 
cause they are never put in her way. 

Guy Armstkad, a journalist of sorts, a press agent and minor 
mender of plays with a numerous acquaintance 
among theatrical folk. He is the masculine 
counterpart of Phyllis, about 33 years old, good 
looking, well-built, smartly dressed. 

Doris Scott, a friend of Phyllis and one of the frivolity chorus 
beauties. 



DEC 14 1^14 



LCI.D 39085 



SCENE I. 

Dining-room in Phyllis Knight's apartment, Jermyn Street, 
Eondon. 

(At rising, Phyllis and Doris are seated at table finishing break- 
fast. Phyllis is wearing a lingerie dressing-gown. ) 

Phyllis (Yawning) : Closing up the night clubs don't seem to 
get me into my stockings any sooner. 

Doris (Looking at wrist watch) : Well, it's only two o'clock 
and I'm dressed already. 

Phyllis (Admiringly) : I should say you are dressed — you're 
all dolled up like a circus pony. Where did you get the rags? 

Doris (Rising and gazing at her gown with an air of swank) : 
In Bond Street, my dear Phyllis — half price, and on credit, too. 
These bally tradesmen treat me like I was the Prince of Wales' 
Fund. 

Phyllis (Interestedly) : How do you do it, Doris? 

Doris : It's not me — it's the war that does it. The war has 
dropped a bomb on every shop in town. 

Phyllis (Rising, lighting cigarette and moving over to sofa) : 
Damn the war! (Noticing small run in silk stockings) Eook at that 
stocking! Looks like an Uhlan had been trampling over it. 

Doris : Why don't you get some new ones ? — simple matter. 

Phvllis: What'll I get 'em with? I tell you my part in the 

new show's off. Trueblood's going to shove in a lot of war movies 

and hurrah- for-the-gallant-Tommies stuff, that he gets for nothing. 

' Doris: Well, I'm on half salary myself — and what with my 

boy at the front I'm jolly well done in by this business. 

Phyllis : The shows are all the same now. It's all war stuff 
and it's the people in the papers who are getting the jobs. Headline 
names — that's it. 

(Bell rings.) 

Doris (Rising) : Shall I go to the. door? 

Phyllis: Do. If it's Freddy Connors tell him I'm out. He 
comes around here now and talks about bus rides ! 

(Doris goes to door and shows in Guy.) 

— 3 — 



Guy {Throwing hat, gloves, stick on convenient chair) : Good 
morning, chickens. How're your feathers? 

Phyllis: Rotten! 

Guy : What's up ? You're both down in the mouth as a couple 
of Belgian refugees. 

Doris : I'm ill with moratorium — it's very fashionable now. 

Guy: Well, shall I start a relief fund for you? I always be- 
lieved in worthy charities. 

Pliyllis : Yes, the worthy unemployed. Trueblood fired me 
last night. 

Guy (Lighting cigarette): How careless of him! I thought 
you had that split skirt song. Trueblood told me your flank move- 
ment in that number was sure to win. (Burlesques ragtime wriggle.) 

Phyllis: Aren't you smart? That stuff would go big. But 
you've got to rehearse in a hospital to get over now. 

Doris : Yes, look at Maudie McCarthy. She's been getting 
fifty quid a week since the Mirror had pictures of her shaving the 
Duke of Dudley in Reems (Rheims) Cathedral. 

Guy (Amused) : Maudie McCarthy in a cathedral! No won- 
der the Kaiser wanted it destroyed ! 

Phyllis (With some warmth.) : Well, anyway, Maudie's get- 
ting big money for an act I'd be ashamed to look in the face. 

Guy (Dryly) : Another horror of war! 

Phyllis (In same tone as before) : I'll bet Maudie doesn't 
now know the inside of a cathedral from the Empire Promenade. 
But she knows how to work the papers, she does. 

Doris (Interrupting) : You mean she's got a jolly good press 
agent. 

Phyllis : I wish to God I had one ! I say, Guy, why don't 
you do something like that for me? You're supposed to be a jour- 
nalist, aren't you ? 

Guy: So you want to -bombard the British public in the guise 
of a female barber — what? 

Phyllis : That's old stuff now. But can't you think up some- 
thing just as good. 

Guy: Twenty if you like. (With more enthusiasm) I'll tell 
you what : you split the deal with me on what you make out of it 
and I'll show you a new form of theatrical larceny that'll bring a 
contract with every post. 

— 4 — ■ 



Phyllis: Ripping! What is it? 

Guy : You go to the Red Cross people and offer your services 
as a reader of letters to the wounded. Tell 'em that your voice is 
restful and sympathetic, and that you have winning ways, a warm 
heart and a cool hand. 

Phyllis (Amused) : And that I stand without hitching, I 
suppose. But then what? 

Guy : Why then you cuddle up alongside of a wounded hero 
and read all his love letters to him. That's where the dirty work 
begins. 

Doris (With a laugh) : Phyllis has slipped enough soft stuff 
into letters to know how the writers want them read. 

Phyllis : That's all right, but where does the spotlight 
come in? 

Guy (Rising and walking up and down) : That's my job, and 
I'm the only chap in L,ondon who can put it over for you properly. 
In the first place, I know the real people out at St. David's Hospital. 
No leaving your own safe country necessary; you just go out there 
and they'll be waiting for you, arms outstretched. They'll walk you 
right into a ward, hand you over a bundle of letters to read and 
guide you to a bed. Just as you have started warbling some sweet- 
heart's love notes, click will go a camera and you're on your way to 
the head lines. Nothing wrong about it, you understand. It works 
both ways. Pictures bring the nloney in ; some to us and some to 
St. David's. 

Phyllis (Quite enthused with the idea) : That's some scheme. 
I'll get the cigarettes and ragtime massaged out of my throat and be 
Tommy's own voice-from-home. 

Guy : You'll have to brush up your acting a bit and learn a 
brogue or two. (Picturing the future.) Ah, but can you do it? I 
can hear you now giving a Redmond Redcoat the news from his 
mavourneen in Tipperary. "Shure an' is it thrue, Paddy bhoy, that 
the Kaiser looks like Carson?" (Lights cigarette, lolls back on sofa.) 

Doris : Can you get away with it, Phyllis ? 

Phyllis : Can I get away with it? (Pointing to Guy on sofa.) 
See that poor, wounded Highlander over there? (Moves towards 
sofa burlesquing manner of trained nurse.) 

Doris (Looking at Guy) : He's been bayonetted by Johnny 
Walker. 

— 5 — 



Phylus {Roughly pushing Guy's head back on pillow and 
deftly snatching letter from his pocket) : Ma poor wee mon, and 
how is your haggis today, and should I read you a little blather from 
your heeland lassie ? 

{Guy raises his head to smile at Doris in appreciation 

of way Phyllis gets the idea.) 
{Phyllis slaps head down on pillow.) 
Phyllis : Rest yourself th' noo, ye saft gillie, while I read 
you the burning words from your little spring of heather in Dundee. 
{Curtain starts to descend as Phyllis, pretending to 
read from letter, breaks into "It's a wee doch and 
doris" ) 

END OF SCENE I. 



6 — 



SCENE II.— Phyllis' Flat. 

TIME — 10 a. m. a week later. 

(Phyllis standing at center table wearing shirtwaist 

and skirt, looking at circular.) 
(Enter Guy hurriedly with several newspapers.) 
Phyllis: Good morning, Guy. {Spoken dully and without 
enthusiasm.) 

Guy (Snappily) : I say, have you seen how they fell for it? 
Phyllis (Apathetically) : Who fell for what? 
Glty (Cheerily) : The newspapers, of course, old thing. Every 
sheet from the Times to Tid-Bits has you immortalized this morning. 
Phyllis (Dully) : No, I've not seen them. 
Guy (Surprised) : You haven't? Well, here's a sample — 
simply top-hole. 

(Phyllis sinks into chair.) 

Guy : Listen to this 

(Reads with exaggerated manner and frequent 
chuckles while Phyllis listens with wide-open eyes 
and growing expression of pain and distaste.) 
"The talent of our country is now generously at the disposal 
of our wounded — the vibrant appeal of Miss Phyllis Knight's sym- 
pathetic voice — it can only be hoped that others will follow her 

pure, unselfish example" 

Phyllis (Turning suddenly and interrupting reading) : How 
beastly (Repeats bitterly). Her pure, unselfish example! 

Guy (Rummaging among the papers in his hand) : If that isn't 
strong enough, how about this little one? It cost me two drinks 
more than the others. 

(Reads again from another paper while Phyllis listens 
with expression of ever-deepening disgust. ) 
"The stage has often been slandered as a profession which 
lays stress upon the shadow rather than the substance, the sem- 
blance of fine actions rather than fine actions themselves — The 
sweet-voiced Miss Phyllis Knight reading to our wounded heroes 



the tear-stained letters — unostentatiously, without the blare of trum- 
pets and with her reward in the doing of her noble, self-imposed 
task" 

Phyllis (Stepping forzvard from window) : Stop it, for 
God's sake! (Throwing herself back into chair and burying face 
in hands) I can't stand it! I can't stand it! 

Guy (Amazed) : What's up? 

Phyllis: Everything! (Defiantly) I'm going to chuck it all. 

Guy (Starting up in bewilderment): What do you mean! 
Going to chuck what? 

Phyllis : This whole rotten business — this beastly game you 
and I have been playing at Oh! can't you see what I mean? 

Guy (Recovering himself, soothingly) : You're losing your 
mind, old dear. (Goes to her and puts his arm about her.) 

Phyllis (Appealingly) : Don't you understand, Guy? 

Guy (Amused) : No, my poor unfortunate, I don't. (Bend- 
ing over her with amused sympathy) Tell it all to Poppa. Why 
the big sob ? 

Phyllis (Drawing away from him yet speaking almost ten- 
derly) : I wonder if I can make you understand. 
(Pavise.) 

(Guy, still completely in the dark, but sensing a scene, 
forces a laugh as he rises, lights cigarette and throws 
himself on another chair.) 
(Phyllis suddenly turns and faces Guy, speaking 
abruptly.) 

Phyllis : When I say I'm going to chuck it all, Guy, I mean 
I can't bear to go to these hospitals thinking only of myself when 
God knows I ought to be thinking only of the poor devils back from 
the front. Why, it's — it's 

Guy (Interrupting brusquely): Good heavens! Aren't you 
reading them their letters? 

Phyllis (Passionately) : Yes, when a photographer's there to 
take me doing it! (Rises and moves to table near Guy.) God! 
Can't you feel the fake of it all? I go there gowned like a strumpet. 
I suffocate the clean smell of the ether with the stink of my per- 
fumes. I'm unreal, selfish, useless. I'm acting a living lie. (Softly 
and slowly) And all the time the living truth is staring me in the 
face. (She falls back a step or two, trembling with excitement.) 



Guy (Applauding sarcastically): Priceless, my dear Phyllis! 
Quite worthy of Bernhardt. How long is this spasm to last ? 

Phyllis (Controlling her emotions, gazing curiously at Guy 
as if seeking to fathom his cynical lack of understanding and speak- 
ing in an even tone) : Really, I don't quite know — perhaps as long 
as the war — perhaps longer. 

Guy : Ah ! Enlistment for the war only. Sure, there's no 
fear of your deserting when I read you this? (Drawing paper from 
pocket.) 

(Phyllis turns away with a slight shrug) 

Guy : This, my proud beauty, is a contract for twenty weeks 
over the Imperial Circuit at fifty pounds a week! 

Phyllis (Disdainfully) : As a press agent, Guy, you top the 
Kaiser! You've done jolly well, but the game was rotten. That 
contract is a grand climax to our little partnership, but I threw two 
better ones than that into the fire this morning. 

Guy (Starting up in sudden rage) : What in hell are you 
playing at? Who are you to run away from a camera? You've 
been trying to push your way into the papers all your life ar . 
now when I land you in every sheet in town you back away from 
it all like a scared school girl. Do you think you look like a flapper 
to me ? 

Phyllis (Dispassionately) : I don't care what I look like, I 
only know I feel like a woman for the first time in my life — I sup- 
pose. A real woman, you know, not a gold-plated vanity case. 
That's what I was, Guy, but war sweeps aside a woman like that — 
makes her see just the sort of thing she is. I didn't know that until 
yesterday, because I didn't know before what war means. 

Guy (Sneeringly) : Fell in love with a Tommy, I suppose. 

Phyllis : That's what you'd think, of course, but you're 
wrong. Yesterday I was sitting beside a young chap just brought 
back from the front. He was dying, they said. He'd been run 
through the lung with a bayonet and had lain in the mud and rain 
for two days before the Red Cross found him. I read a letter 
from his sweetheart and he asked me to write her a postcard, but 
one of your photographers made me move to where the light was 
better, and as I posed there in the midst of that suffering with a 
stage smirk on my face it came over me in a great rush what a sick- 
ening sham I was — what a dirty game I was playing ! I tell you 1 



loathed myself! I got out of the hospital as quick as I could. I 
didn't even go back to that boy — I was too ashamed — so I fancy the 
postcard to his girl will never be written. 

{During above, Guy's cynical attitude seems to fall 
from him. He is so engrossed with her words his 
cigarette drops from between his fingers.) 
Guy {Without bitterness) : Call our scheme a sham or anything 
you like, how are you going to get away from it now ? 

Phyllis {Vehemently) : In the first place, I'm going to take 
another name. War has changed the woman ; I can change her 
name myself. Then I'm going off to some little hospital in the 
country. I'm going to read letters if they want me to. But I'm 
also going to sew bandages and wash clothes and scrub floors, if 
they want me to do that. If you're real in times like these you'll 
help others, not hunt chances to help yourself. 

Guy {Reverting partially to cynicism) : You'll be quite a com- 
fort to your country, won't you, old dear? I didn't even know you 
were English. 

Phyllis : As it happens, I'm not English ; where I was born 
doesn't count. It doesn't matter what country you're from when 
you're face to face with realities like this. 
{Pause) 

{Phyllis moves toward Guy, looks him hard in the 
face, speaking with a noticeable touch of scorn.) 
Phyllis : But you are English, aren't you, Guy? 

{Guy shrugs shoulders, then moves to table, stands 
there for a moment as if in deep thought. Business 
of shifting books about nervously.) 
{Guy turns and takes step forward towards Phyllis as 
if about to speak. His face is graver than before.) 
{Suddenly newsboy crying, "Latest War Extra — De- 
spatches from the Front!" — is heard in the street. 
Guy's attitvtde changes to a listening one and he 
walks to window and glances out.) 
{Phyllis meantime has sat down again and has been 
watching Guy closely, with questioning gaze. She, 
too, notices the newsboy's cry.) 
Guy : We must get one of these papers ! 
. Phyllis : Telephone the porter to have one sent up. 

— 10 — 



Guy: Righto! {Takes up 'phone) Oh, porter, send up one of 
those latest extras, will you, please? Thank you. {Hangs up re- 
ceiver) Some more toilet talk about nutty chauffeurs, I fancy. Mo- 
mentous war news that 

Phyllis {Bitterly sarcastic) : Yes, it's shameful, isn't it, 
how Sir John French neglects you journalists in favor of his 
soldiers. 

Guy : He might do something for us now and then ! 

{Knock on door. Guy goes to door, opens it and takes 
paper, opens it and reads eagerly.) 

Guy : It is news from the front ! 

Phyllis : Good news ? 

Guy : Just three lines from French, but it says the Germans 
have fallen back ten miles. 

{Phyllis' face lights up and she claps her hands softly, 
Guy glances over rest of paper's front page.) 

Guy {Enthusiastically) : By Jove! We're giving 'em hell on 
the Aisne. 

Phyllis {Bitterly, almost shouting the words) : We're giving 
them hell! We! Who do you mean by zve? 

Guy {Glancing up from paper surprised) : Our troops, of 
course. 

Phyllis {Angrily) : And you have the cheek to say "we" 
when you mean the men out there in the trenches. You, who sit 
here in London and think only about whether the news from the 
front makes good reading — news that's written in the blood of men 
who are real men — not the pen-fighters of Leicester Square ! 

Guy {Interrupting) : What fresh rot is this? 

Phyllis {Interrupting in turn, hotly) : Rot! Of course it's 
rot! Anything that's real is rot — helping your country when y 
country needs you is rot ; but thank God there are lots of that kind 
of rotters in the firing line, and a good many more at home to take 
their places. 

Guy: I suppose this howl means I'm a rotter because I don't 
give up more important work to vegetate in a training camp. Let 
me tell you, my ignorant infant, it's just as important in war, as in 
peace, for people to do the work they know best. Some men fight — 
some men write. 

— 11 — 



Phyllis: And war makes it plain enough which shall do 
which ; the old men and the weaklings can do the writing ; the 
young men must fight. 

Guy: What do / know about soldiering? What I do know 
about is telling the country how to get soldiers — and that's import- 
ant enough, isn't it ? 

Phyllis (Passionately) : Important! Your work important ! 
Great God, do you really imagine that twisting despatches from the 
front into flowery language helps your country — or yourself? 
(Changing suddenly into pleading) Can't you see, Guy, that what's 
needed now are men of the fighting age — men who are fit — men like 
yourself? Forget your swank, and your manicured nails, and all 
the rest of your shams, and face the facts. 

Guy (Evidently weakening) : But, Phyllis, journalism and 

journalists 

Phyllis (Pressing her advantage) : Guy, I happened to read 
some verses the other day about one set of journalists "coining the 
tears of women to pennies on the street" (Repeats slowly) "coining 
the tears of women to pennies on the street" — just as you advised 
me to coin the groans of dying soldiers into a job on the Imperial 
Circuit at fifty quid a week. Ah, Guy ! can't you see — can't you see? 
(Phyllis sinks into chair weeping silently.) 
Guy (Rising, tossing away cigarette awkwardly) : Our boys 
are fighting well on the Aisne ! 

(Sounds of pipes heard in the street outside.) 
(Guy goes to window.) 
(Gazing out, speaking as if to himself) : Scottish territorials! 
Going to the front ! 

(Slight pause.) 
Wonder how I'd look in uniform! 

(Phyllis looks up swiftly, fresh hope in her glance. 
Guy turns and smiles a bit shame- facedly, and 
Phyllis rises and goes toward him with outstretched 
arms, as the pipes sound louder in the streets to the 
tune, "It's a Long Way to TipperaryJ") 



— 12 — 



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